S'mores
by Tbuddahh
Summary: Camping trip A/U based on a prompt I received on Tumblr.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a little fic I'm writing in response to a prompt over on tumblr. Camping A/U with both Robin and Regina's POV. There will probably be only one more chapter before this is finished.**

 **Ethics and Morality update (don't worry guys, I'm working on the next chapter, it's just being difficult. In the mean time I filled a few little prompts for that verse over on tumblr if you want to check those out - I'm whitebuddah0524)**

 **After I finish E &M, my plan is to focus on Beneath the Dirt and occasionally Doctor. Just letting you all know :)**

He's sexy. She's noticed of course, would have to be blind not to, but his physical attraction is extremely muted when he opens his mouth, when he speaks.

"You might have better luck if you place the stakes further apart." She scoffs at that, cranes her neck until his figure can be seen towering beside her, the toned muscles of his arms glistening in the sun.

If looks could kill she is certain her gaze would strike him dead this very moment. One thing Regina has mastered in her lifetime is a glare, a glare that normally has men and women alike cowering in her presence, but since the day she met this man (two years ago at a fundraiser for the school both of their boys attend) he's never been susceptible to her belittling stare.

"I think I can handle pitching a tent without your help, Mr Locksley." He hates that, always has, the way she refuses to call him Robin, and she only does it to see his shoulders sag, listen to the defeated sigh that passes his lips. She'd feel guilty if she didn't know that his ego could use the deflate.

He doesn't take long to recover from the disappointment though, only a moment. Just like that a cocky smirk tugs at the corners of his mouth, those damn dimples creasing his cheeks, and she turns away, because right now he isn't saying something annoying, right now she is tired (she'd woken early to pack the car and check on Henry), and sweating (why does it have to be 92 degrees with 65% humidity today of all days?), and it has been a long time since she's found pleasure with another human being, so with Robin standing their all muscular and quiet she is finding it difficult to ignore that pull of attraction, the pool of arousal promising to leave her wet for an entirely different reason than the heat.

"Good to know you're so adept at pitching tents, Regina." She pauses at that, a stake caught tightly in her grip, and she breathes deeply, debates whether she should scold him for using her name when she's asked him to call her Miss Mills, or for the obvious innuendo he's declared with an emphasis on the words 'pitching tents'.

She doesn't have to think long. He doesn't give her a chance to respond at all before telling her, 'I'll let you know if I need any help pitching mine', and with a wink of his eye he walks away, takes the three steps away from her that allows him to reach his own perfectly assembled tent.

And Regina seethes, stabs the dirt with the metal stake in her grip, and mentally berates herself for letting Mary Margaret convince her to join all of them on this little 'relaxing weekend getaway'.

* * *

"Why must you aggravate her like that, Mate?" Robin stiffens, turns to face Killian as the man saunters over, two dark bottles in hand, one of which ends up cooling Robin's grip as the condensation on the brown glass drips over his knuckles.

He takes a swig, lets the cool beverage settle for a moment before glancing toward the woman in question. She's still working on her tent, bent over in her dark wash jeans and crisp white tank aggressively pushing another stake in the ground, and Robin can't help but appreciate the view. The first thing he noticed about Regina was her figure, or rather, her backside. And that isn't because he's a lech or a womanizer, but it was impossible not to notice her very shapely assets when he'd been behind her in line at the time, her red dress hugging each and every curve.

She'd been a picture of beauty, the goddess Venus herself, and he'd been determined to introduce himself. As it turned out, she was the one to initiate introductions two years ago, a scowl painted on that beautiful face, and he has always found her much more attractive when her mouth is shut, when she isn't passive aggressively attacking him for unintentionally slighting her. To this day he isn't certain what he had done to get on her bad side, what he'd done to rub her the wrong way when at the time all he could think about was rubbing her in all the right ways. Well, if he's honest, he still thinks about that.

He draws his gaze from the woman before she can catch him staring, before she can scold him for ogling her, and with a shake of his head he states defeatedly, "She brings out the worst in me." Another swig of beer goes down the hatch at that admission.

Killian laughs, pats a palm on Robin's shoulder before saying, "I've noticed." And it's true. Robin isn't a bad guy, or at least, he tries to be honorable. For some reason, the moment Regina went on the offence two years ago, he couldn't help but meet her head on, and now, well, she thinks he's an arrogant playboy so that's what he gives her, and he enjoys the lick of pride when he gets a reaction from her, when she scoffs or rolls her eyes.

Still, he tries to be kind, attempts a friendly interaction each time he sees her, but she never lets it get far, never lets them share more than a few minutes of pleasant conversation before sharp barbs are being tossed by her tongue. He imagines that tongue could be put to so many better uses, that mouth, those lips.

"You seem to have the same affect on her." Robin's pulled from fantasies that have no place in his mind by Killian's words. He gestures toward the center of their little camp where the two of them sink down on two of the six chairs circling the fire pit that has yet to be lit.

It's hot today, a moist heat that has a sheen of sweat settling on his skin, the beer in his hand turning prematurely warm. Kilian takes another gulp of his own beverage, flits his eyes toward Regina where she stands proudly, her back to them as she admires her own handiwork. "I've known that woman only a year longer than you, but I've never seen her feathers ruffled quite how you manage with your mere presence."

Robin sighs, lets his eyes find the woman again, and he can see her tent won't hold up long. If she's lucky it'll make her through tonight, but she wouldn't take his help, always refuses his help. "I'll try to play nice this weekend, Killian." He reassures the man beside him because he's fairly certain Killian is only worried about his and Regina's verbal sparring ruining the weekend for Emma and himself.

"I understand, Mate." The other man lifts his hands, palms facing outward, "Regina can be a real pain in the ass," Robin huffs out a small laugh at that, thinks what an understatement for that woman, "But I don't want to see either of you thrown into the fire over the next two days."

Robin tilts back his head and drains his bottle, glances back at Regina one more time to find her talking with Emma, the blonde welcomed like Robin will never be, and warm brown eyes find his, narrowing the instant they meet. He turns back to Killian, leans forward to tighten the laces on his tennis shoes, "Believe me, if anyone ends up in the fire this weekend, it will be me. I have a feeling Regina wouldn't mind casting me into the flames."

He stands then, tells Killian he's going for a jog on the trail, to which the other man replies, "are you mad?" And maybe he is, but he needs to get out of this camp, needs to get away from that woman who can have him unpleasantly aroused as quickly as she can have his blood boiling with frustration.

* * *

It's late morning by the time Regina finishes with her tent, and it doesn't look too bad (in her opinion). So much for putting her stakes further apart. What does a computer programmer know about camping anyway (he knows a lot, she knows as much, knows he takes Roland camping and fishing each summer every weekend).

"You and Robin already getting into it?" It's Emma that walks up beside her, offers her a bottle of water, and as she turns to address the blonde she catches a view of the man in question. He looks her way, says something to Killian beside him before running off on one of the numerous wooded trails.

"Mr. Locksley has already proven to be poor company if that's what you're asking." She twists the cap off her water, chugs down the cold liquid until it chills her stomach, and once more she wonders what possessed her to come on this trip.

It was Henry of course. They've finally mended a rift, finally seem to have moved forward in their relationship after almost three years of being at odds. He'd insisted she take some time to herself (he's growing up so fast), told her to take the weekend and learn some camping skills so she'll take him and they won't end up on the evening news as a mother and son lost in the wilderness.

Emma pulls her from the recollection of her boy and his lack of faith (if only he could see her now, her tent proudly standing). "You could be a little more," Emma pauses as Regina's brow lifts, and she gives the other woman a look that means to tread carefully, but she knows Emma; this woman never treads carefully, "Look," the blonde's hands lift momentarily, a placating gesture, "All I'm saying is Robin is a nice guy, and I've never seen him behave poorly except around you."

She scoffs at that, ignores the little niggle of disappointment that Robin seems to be a perfect gentleman to everyone but her, "So it's my fault then?"

"Of course not, Regina." Emma shakes her head, furrows her brow. "I just think the two of you could actually hit it off if you'd both stop being," the blonde lifts her hand, swirls it in an awkward gesture before finally concluding with, "how you're being."

"Very eloquent, Miss Swan." Emma tilts her head at that, frowns while Regina sips again at her water.

"So now I'm Miss Swan?" There is a twinge of hurt in the other woman's voice, and Regina knows better, knows she shouldn't push away people who have stuck with her through so much, so long.

"I'm sorry, Emma." She takes a deep breath, brushes a droplet of sweat from her temple, "You're right. Robin seems to bring out the worst in me for some reason."

"Oh, I think I know the reason." The blonde smirks, sips at her own water while Regina furrows her brow and narrows her eyes questioningly at the woman. "Let's go for a hike."

She's caught off guard by that, the shift in topic. Her eyes shift around the camp, and she takes a mental assessment of the reality of her immediate future. Killian is still at the center of camp, nursing what looks to be a bottle of beer. Mary Margaret and David finished setting up their tent an hour ago before they disappeared amongst it's blue fabric with a couple bags and the obvious excuse of 'unpacking'.

She turns back to Emma, looks at the mouth of the trail nearest them, the narrow path shaded by walls of leafy green. "Sure," she recaps her bottle, "why not?"

* * *

The sweltering heat of the day lingers, sticks in the atmosphere until the sun finally kisses the horizon, painting the sky in dazzling hues, and for the first time Robin is actually happy to be here. He soaks in the beauty of his surroundings, absorbs the coolness beginning to taint the warm air, and starts stacking wood for a fire before the sun leaves them without any light.

It has been a relaxing day, certainly not laborious at least, but after his late morning run to blow off some steam, he's still been wound tightly around Regina, like a kettle ready to whistle, and she's been oddly quiet around him, throwing fewer insults than normal, something that throws him off kilter. Part of him wonders if that's her purpose, but then he thinks better of it, figures she, like him, is just trying to make this weekend less unpleasant than it could be.

Apparently that means they can't talk at all.

He places three sturdy logs against one another, balances them just so, but placing a fourth and fifth has the entire structure toppling to the side before he can steady it.

"Maybe you should place your logs a little further apart."

Speak of the devil. He smirks to himself, shakes his head before lifting his gaze. She's still wearing those dark jeans, the material hugging her form nicely, but she's added a red cardigan over the white tank, and it alludes him how even camping she can look so crisp and elegant, the only hint of a day outside in humidity the curling hairs at her temple.

She looks softer though, her face a touch gentler than when he normally sees her at gathering with their mutual friends, or at school functions. Her makeup is duller, almost non-existent, and he finds that she looks kinder like this, more innocent somehow; her words, however, prove how incorrect of an assumption that would be.

"Do you need help with your wood, Mr. Locksley?" She says it with wide eyes, a mask of innocence and sincerity, but they both know what she's playing at, and she can't hide her proud grin. It's the same game they've rivaled at since day one. He does hate it when she refuses to call him by name, when in reality they know each other rather well. Or at least, they know a lot about each other.

"Are you offering?" He responds with a tilt of his head, a hand gesturing toward the fire pit, but she just smiles, plants herself in one of the chairs, curling up her legs in a manner that reminds him of a cat.

"And deprive you of such a well-suited task?" Her hand lifts to her sternum, presses there, and he wonders what it feels like, wonders how soft her skin would be against his hand. "I wouldn't dare."

"Of course not." He's always thought her a touch pretentious, a little pompous, at least with him, so he stands, offers a slight bow while saying, "Let me get the fire started for you then, your majesty."

She rolls her eyes at that, but says nothing more while he situates the logs and prepares some kindling. The evening flows past once the fire is lit, the six of them happily chatting and joking, laughing and smiling. Regina and him don't speak again, but he hears her talk, listens to her husky voice as she recounts for the group how David and Mary Margaret met, how disgustingly in love they were from the get go.

It makes him long to have known his friends then, when the five of them had met years ago in college. Mary Margaret and Regina had been roommates, had met Emma in a class and the men at a local pub, but while they were all getting to know each other, Robin was settling down with his new bride, putting himself through tech school and working long nights. He wouldn't give up those days for anything, the spring of his marriage to Marian, the budding romance that eventually gave him Roland, but still, he thinks Regina would have been quite a sight to behold in those days, and part of him wishes he could relive the moments his friends reminisce upon with such nostalgia.

"And that's how she got arrested." Mary Margaret continues yet another tale, this one chronicling Emma's wilder days, and he laughs, a hearty thing pulled from his lips while the others smile and Emma has the sense to look a little ashamed.

"Hey, the guy deserved it." The blonde defends before canting the topic of conversation to what Robin has learned is one of her favorites (food), "Anyone up for some s'mores?"

"Oh yes!" Mary Margaret stands abruptly, letting David's hand fall between their two chairs, and Robin has to smile at the couple, the way they seem like two halves split from a whole. "I'll get the chocolate bars and graham crackers. Regina can you grab the marshmallows from the bag behind your chair?"

He stands himself then, stretches his back while his front stays warmed by the heat of the fire. It's gotten a lot colder, but it's still sticky, moisture hovering around them, and he looks up, notices a lack of stars where there should be more, and thinks to himself with a glance toward the tents that maybe he should add some supports to Regina's shelter while she's distracted. It won't make it through a heavy storm, that much he is certain of, but then Killian is placing an ice cold beer in his hand, and the thought slips his mind, carried away by the promise of a warm and gooey dessert as Regina politely hands him a stick with a bright white marshmallow on the end.

"Try not to fall in the fire." She whispers with a wide grin, and he can't decide if she looks evil in that moment, or just plain sexy, the orange glow of flame kissing her skin.


	2. Chapter 2

**Looks like there will be one more update (maybe two, depends what I can fit into Robin's POV)**

When it rains it pours. That's what they say, and apparently for good reason, because right now Regina can't think of a worse way to spend her evening.

Things had been going lovely if she's completely honest. She'd been able to avoid Robin for the majority of the day, had been able to hold her tongue for the most part, and sitting around the fire she found herself actually capable of enjoying the man's company. A feat she finds far easier when he doesn't talk to her, when he sits there smiling, laughing, those dimples popping and blue eyes crinkling.

She shakes away the recollection, scratches any figment of affection for that man from her psyche because right now she'd rather not lay eyes on him. 'Place your stakes further apart' he'd said, and the echoing of his arrogance thrums through her brain as a deluge of water drenches her already soaked hair, her satin pajamas clinging to her like a second skin.

He was right. Of course he would have to be right, and her mind spins with just how offensive she finds his accuracy now that her tent lies in shambles, a heap of sodden fabric and fallen poles. It had collapsed right on her, left her to crawl her way to freedom leaving her bag behind somewhere in the midst of a forest of puddles.

She stand there for a long moment, scratches her head, and she's cold, freezing really as the heavy rain continues to pelt at her flesh. She'd tried to reassemble the damn thing, tried to lift and stretch it back into a semblance of a shelter, but in reality there is no way she'll accomplish such a task, not tonight, and not alone.

The next shiver that runs through her body has her sighing heavily, blinking moisture from her lashes before dropping her head in defeat. She will never take Henry camping, not without at least a half dozen others far more well-suited to such an endeavor.

She doesn't hear a zipper, doesn't even notice the figure to her right until Robin is right beside her. "Come on!" His palm comes up to cup her elbow, and he's nearly drenched himself now, but still exuding warmth, a hint of heat simmering from the contact, so she follows, or rather, leads the way to his tent.

She settles herself into the furthest corner, hugging knees to her chest, and when he zips the flaps shut behind himself she tries not to notice the way his white shirt coats his skin, defined muscles prominent beneath the sodden fabric, but then he's lifting it up, up, and over and why does this man have to be so damn attractive? Why can't she help but imagine the way his stomach would ripple beneath her hands, the way his arms would flex around her body?

When her eyes finally travel upward, dark brown meeting cool blue, it's obvious he knows exactly what she's thinking, and the blush that warms her cheeks would be completely irritating if it didn't also warm her chilled flesh.

She clears her throat, prepares herself to make some snide cut, throw a lash from her tongue to bring him down a notch or two, but before she has the chance he's reaching beside her, tugging his green duffel to where his knees meet the tent floor and pulling out two white cotton t-shirts; one of which ends up tossed at her feet.

She scoffs, looks up at him with a mixture of contempt and shock, because he can't really think she's going to strip down naked in front of him.

"A simple thank you would suffice." Is his only response to her expression, a muttered statement as he pulls on his own dry shirt and grabs for a pair of clean blue boxer shorts, and Regina tries to hide the slight annoyance she feels at the fabric now covering his torso.

"I didn't ask for your help." She sounds stubborn even to her own ears, but he doesn't seem phased, not one bit, and she diverts her eyes with a sharp intake of breath when he stands, hunched over in the short tent and tugs his damp sweatpants down what look like very toned thighs.

"That doesn't mean you didn't need it." She gulps, can see a flash of blue in her periphery, moving up and up, and she doesn't turn back to him until he's back on his knees across from her.

"I could have gone to one of the other tents." She states with a glare, making every attempt to tamp down her body's incessant need to shiver at this moment.

"Yes," he admits, sighs and rubs a hand over his eyes before pushing it back through quickly drying hair (if only hers would do the same). "You could have gone to another tent, and had very little, if any space to sleep." He's right again of course. It had been the very reason she was still standing in the onslaught of droplets rather than running immediately for shelter. All of their tents are small, hardly enough space for two let alone three, but part of her thinks she would have rather slept curled beneath a lawn chair than come to grovel at his tent.

He gestures toward the dry shirt at her feet, the promise of warm cotton flowing freely across her skin, rather than drenched silk sticking to her cold flesh. "You'll catch your death of cold if you don't get out of those wet clothes, Regina." She's about to shift her chin a little higher, about to tell him if he thinks she's stripping down anywhere in his vicinity he must be crazy, but then he says, "I refuse to bring you back to Henry ill when I could have prevented it."

That does it. The mention of her boy thrusts logic through her mind, smothering out what's left of her pride. "Turn around." It's not a request, not even a polite statement, but an order, a dictate that firmly leaves her lips, and he does what she asks seemingly on impulse.

It feels amazing; to finally peel the cold wet fabric from her body, let it fall with a plop into a sodden heap. His shirt smells of him, and of course it would, of course the fabric would lay against her flesh only making her imagine what it would feel like replaced by the man himself.

"May I?" He asks not a moment after she's decent, or what will have to pass for decent anyway. She crosses her arms across her chest, hugging her still frigid torso and covering the blatant evidence of such from his eyes before murmuring that yes, he may.

He turns with a bottle in one hand and a small towel in the other. With an outstretched arm he hands her the material in his grasp, "For your hair." He smiles kindly, and she welcomes it with one of her own, lets the moment linger between them because there are so few instances when one of them isn't saying something rude or uncivil, most often her if she's completely honest.

Something about the warmth in his eyes, the compassion crinkling in those pools of blue have her saying, "Thank you." The words fluttering past her lips, and when he bites his tongue, doesn't follow her pleasantry with a biting comment of how she does know how to say those words, she smiles wider and adds his name, "Robin."

His reply of 'you're welcome' is earnest and sincere, has her tense form softening into the fabric of his sleeping bag beneath her knees, and she'll accept this now, soak in the comfort of this calm moment between them. She'll even try to make it last, try to be civil for both of their sakes. A night in a tent with Robin can't be that bad.

When he bites his lower lip, a full smirk carving dimples deeper into his cheeks, she think a night in his tent might not be bad at all.

His other hand lifts, dark amber liquid sloshing against the inside of the bottle, "Care for a drink?"


	3. Chapter 3

_**Okay, one more part after this (in Regina's POV)**_

He knows Regina is beautiful, always has, but in this moment; with her hair slowly drying into damp waves, her face free of makeup, and her body covered in nothing but his cotton shirt, well, he thinks she might be more stunning than ever before.

She accepts his offer of a drink, doesn't even scoff when he swigs directly from the bottle before passing it her way, and when she tilts it back to meet her own lips, the dark liquid sliding past that gorgeous mouth of hers, that mouth so capable of enthralling him while simultaneously belittling him, he tries not to think about how adorable she looks when the burn of whiskey scrunches up her face.

Something has shifted between them, most likely only a momentary reprieve from their usual combative nature, but he'll take it; he'll beg it to last.

She's cold. He can tell by the way the creamy expanse of her thighs is covered in gooseflesh, the way she shivers noticeably every so often. He wishes he could provide her with more warmth, but he'd packed light, and it is supposed to be warm all weekend, so all he has still clean aside from what they are already wearing is one pair of khaki shorts, something that would in no way be comfortable for her to sleep in.

He debates slipping out of his boxers and offering them to her, putting the other shorts on himself, but then she's talking, and he's lost to the way words form and flow past her lips.

"Don't get any ideas." She'd noticed him eyeing her legs. Of course she would, but there is no bite to her words, no true annoyance, only a flirtatious smile crossing her face so he bites his lip, takes another swallow from the bottle between them before offering her the same.

"I was only thinking you look cold still, but I don't have much more to offer." She shrugs at that, tells him the whiskey is warming her, and if she moves a little further his way, their knees nearly bumping as she adjusts on the flannel of his open sleeping bag - he tries not to notice.

They talk after that. Actually talk, while the rain plays a staccato melody on his tent. Their regular banter is there, sarcastic wit pouring from Regina as usual, his uncanny ability to meet her snark with his own each and every time, but for once the lashes cast by their tongues seem to tickle rather than sting, meant to tease rather than hurt.

He loses track of time, loses track of how much he drinks, but there is a pleasant thrum of warmth flowing through his veins when their conversation turns somewhat serious again, when she makes an offhanded comment about his promiscuity, something that confuses and irks him in a way he supposes it shouldn't. But the truth is, he is not the cad she thinks he is, and he finds in this moment that her presumptions burns more than ever before.

"I don't know what I've done to cause you to have such a low opinion of me, but you're wrong, Regina." He looks her in the eyes, tries to ignore the fact that he may destroy the entire friendly atmosphere they have going, but he finds that he needs her to know this, needs her to stop thinking so poorly of him. "I haven't been with a woman since Marian. I'm not the lady's man you assume." He looks down after that admission, suddenly finding the blue and green flannel underneath them fascinating, but he hears her whisper of 'oh', and so now she knows.

"I'm sorry, Robin. I-"

"Don't worry about it." He takes another drink of liquid warmth before offering it her way. This time she declines, shakes her head with a subtle smile that has him capping the half empty bottle and setting it aside.

"I am sorry, Robin, and I should be." Their eyes meet again, and he doesn't think he's ever seen her eyes look quite so warm, so welcoming, oh how he wants this unexpected truce to last. "I, well, I'd assumed based on your behavior that-"

"My behavior?" He doesn't normally interrupt, truly, but he wants her to elaborate, needs her to be clear, because he thinks since he met her she's thought him an arrogant pomp and he needs to know why, what he'd done.

"Your," she pauses, looks adorable with her lips quirking to the side while she thinks, "flirtatious manner," she elaborates, and his brow lifts in comprehension, understanding, because he is guilty of such, has always been a bit of a flirt, "but I should have never let that guide my opinion of you." She shakes her head, looks despondent. "I wouldn't think that of a woman just because I witness her flirting. I shouldn't have…"

She stumbles over what else to say, and she's already apologized enough, offered him explanation and remorse, something he does not want or need her to feel. His hand finds hers, palms flat against the flannel beneath them (she's still cold he notices), and he briefly wonders when they got so close, when the space between them became only a few inches. "It's okay, Regina. I understand. Let's just leave it in the past."

Her lips curve, and his gut burns with a mixture of affection and arousal. He wants to kiss those lips, wants to feel how soft they are against his own, wants to trace them with his tongue. They open then, as he stares, white teeth beaming in a wide smile, and when he meets her eyes he realizes just how long he's been noticeably focused on her mouth. She seems to find his perusal of her features hilarious for once, and they both laugh, smile, the friendly atmosphere not destroyed after all.

She shakes then, a slight tremble, and he watches as her hands move to slide quickly along her legs in an effort to produce friction as she tucks them impossibly further beneath her.

"Regina, you're still freezing." He looks down, this is his only blanket, his sleeping bag all he'd brought for the weekend. He moves the couple feet toward the side of his tent until the bare skin of his legs makes contact with the cold and crinkly tent floor. "Here," he lifts, tries to fold her up so the bag can be zipped and she can finally find some warmth, but she stops him, shakes her head.

"Then you'll be the one freezing."

He smiles, huffs out a laugh, "I'll be fine." He assures. "I'm hot-blooded."

She still halts him, takes a moment to ponder something, and he'd love to spend even an instant in this woman's brain. She fascinates him, always has, even when her sharp tongue has him near bleeding. "Well," she pushes his hand back, opening the sleeping bag once more, "if you're so hot-blooded," she shifts to the edge of his sleeping bag, shrugs, "warm me up."

He freezes. Does she have any idea how sexy she can be without even trying, and his mind thrums with all the different ways he'd like to warm her up, but he chases the figments from his head, gulps visibly, and nods his acquiescence to her demand.

He shimmies back beside her while unsuccessfully trying to hide the evidence of his attraction to her. Can she really blame him? He's just admitted to not being with a woman for nearly three years, and now she's smiling at him, grinning with pride really, but once they are both laying on their sides, cocooned safely in the sleeping bag and his arms circle her waist, he feels a lick of pride at her sharp intake of air. Apparently he isn't the only one affected by their close proximity.

He can feel the chill of her body against the front of him, and he shifts their bodies until he can tangle his legs with hers, arms wrapping her torso like a present. They share his pillow, his nose breathing her in, dark waves tickling his face, and why oh why does she have to smell so irresistible.

She sighs, her body relaxing into his, that lovely backside pivoting into his growing hardness, and she mutters a smiling apology when he nearly whimpers at the sensation.

But he can give as good as he gets, so he leaves his one arm beneath her neck for support, folding around her front, but shifts so that he can grip at her hip with his other hand, stilling her wriggling body, partially because she is torturing him with the slight movement, and partially because he wants to hear her breath quicken when his fingers dig lightly into her lace covered flesh.

Her - no, his - shirt has moved up her body while they situated themselves beside one another, something that seems to have her not at all concerned; not if her strangled gasp and the pivot of her hips further back into his own are any indication.

And just like that his semi erection turns into a full-fledged stiffie that has him deepening that grasp on her hip, his face burrowing at the cove of her neck and shoulder with a whisper of her name.

He doesn't even realize he'd said anything until her raspy 'yes?' finds his ears.

He takes a deep breath, tries to calm the raging blood in his veins that have his heart beating fast, his lungs taking in air and releasing it with quick puffs against her skin. "Are you warmer?" He asks, moving his face back from her because if he doesn't put a little distance between them he'll go mad with want.

She laughs, a small thing, tamped down when her teeth bite into her lower lip, something he can only see because she's turned her head toward him slightly. "Yes." She spins in his arms then, snakes a hand over his ribcage and along his side, mirroring where is own lays atop her. "I'd say you've been very effective."

A smirk tugs at his lips, and he watches her dark eyes flutter across his face until they settle on his lips. The battery powered lantern that's been lighting his tent is dimming he notices, her features darker in the dying light, and his hand lifts of it's own accord to push back a wave of dark brown so he can better see her.

In that moment he watches as indecision furrows her brow before a stern resolve takes place, and with that her lips crash to his, soft yet firm, and oh so short, because before he can even respond she's pulling back, both of them near panting the air between them.

He thinks maybe it's the whiskey, but they really haven't had that much, and then he supposes it could be the heat of the day, perhaps heat-stroke that has Regina in his arms at this instant, but then he stops caring altogether. He takes her lips with his before another shade of uncertainty can creep across her features. He kisses her, traces the seam of her mouth with his tongue until she's opening for him, tongues dancing, teeth nipping.

They part after several seconds, and it isn't until just now that he even realizes he's shifted to settle between her thighs, leaning over her with an elbow on either side of her chest while her hands seem to have taken up permanent residence circling his neck and tugging gently at his hair.

He shakes his head for a moment, looks at this woman in awe because he's still not quite positive that this isn't all a beautiful dream. Either way, he's happy that she didn't heed his wisdom, didn't place those stakes of her's further apart upon his suggestion.

"I've never been happier that you chose to ignore my advice." He watches as a shade of confusion chases the blush from her cheeks, but then she's smiling, realization dawning before she pivots beneath him, her legs lifting to circle his hips, pressing at his hard length, and he swears he can feel how wet she is through the layers of lace and cotton that separate them.

His eyes drop closed in response, his mind trying to tame the reaction of his body before he embarrasses himself, but then he hears, "I told you I knew how to pitch a tent." And with that she thrashes her hips up against his, the head of his erection slipping through the hole at the front of his boxers, and oh yes, she is definitely wet, the lace of her panties exquisitely damp and hot, and he's lost in this woman, lost as he devours her with another hungry kiss.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Okay, here is the last part. I might do a morning after epilogue eventually as well. You have a few anons on tumblr and pt159 to thank for this because they didn't let me forget about this story. Thank you! I hope you like this final part :D**_

 _ **Oh, and this is rated M for tons of smut.**_

She'd been wrong, so incredibly wrong about this man.

He'd met her at the worst time, a moment of crisis in her life as a mother, and he had no way of knowing about the strain in her relationship with Henry, but still, she'd unintentionally picked him to carry the anger and frustration she'd felt.

She can see it now; the way he would flirt, the smiles and winks he'd send to every woman to so much as utter a hello, and he was an easy target, a safe place to aim her venomous emotions. But now she knows, now she can see just how wrong she'd been.

"Regina." It's a breathless whisper against her neck, and she isn't sure when his mouth left hers, when his lips trailed feather like kisses down past her jaw, but she isn't complaining. In fact, she doesn't think she could even voice a complaint at this moment if she tried, not when her reply comes out as more of a moan than the 'yes' she'd intended.

He moves away then, lifts his body slightly, separating flesh and limbs in a way that has her body involuntarily shifting, following the loss of him pressed against her. At least the distance seems to pull her from the pool of desire that had been near drowning her, and when she glances up, stares into Robin's eyes, she can see the conflict there like his thoughts are transparent, completely visible to her all at once. She wonders briefly why she couldn't see so easily before, or perhaps she always could, maybe that's partly why she'd disliked him so.

"Regina," his voice is rough and carries an edge she's never heard from him, "I," he pauses, stutters, and she can imagine his trepidation. After all, the man has just confessed to her that he hasn't been with a woman since his late wife, and Regina isn't certain, but she knows Marian had passed away before she met Robin two years ago. That's an awful long dry spell.

She lifts a hand to his jaw, the pad of her thumb bristling over his stubble, "Robin, if you don't want to-"

"No." He interrupts, and with a sigh his body presses down to her once more, his forehead following and meeting hers in a way that feels far more intimate than the way he'd been kissing her moments earlier. "I want this more than I can say, but," his head lifts, his eyes seeking hers, and their lantern is nearly dead now, a soft warm glow blanketing his features, "it's been a long time."

She smiles, clears her throat, and he can't really see her well, not in this dim light so she figures the blush that creeps upon her cheeks will go unnoticed when she responds with, "for me too."

He returns her smile, drops a soft kiss to her lips, but it doesn't grow hungry, not yet. He pulls back again, bites his lower lip, and the action has her wishing it was her lip and not his between those teeth. "I don't have a condom," he pauses, nearly winces at the words, "I don't suppose you have one hiding in that heap of soaked silk in the corner?"

It makes her laugh, a warm and throaty chuckle full of mirth, and she tells him 'no', she hadn't been hiding a condom in her pajamas, something that has the glimmer of hope in his face quickly fading and dying out, "but," she clears her throat, finding her arms wrapping around his neck, fingers combing through his hair, "I know I'm clean, and I imagine-". She doesn't finish the thought, simply nods toward him with a questioning brow.

He stutters at first, seemingly distracted by her mouth, or maybe it's the way she can't seem to keep her tongue from peeking past her lips. "Of course, no, I mean, yes, I'm clean. As I said, I haven't exactly been active for quite awhile." He sighs then, a breath of relief and it moistens the skin on her cheek. "But, what about?"

This time it's his turn to gesture, and she simply smiles, something small, and tells him there is a reason why she'd adopted Henry. With that he nods, his mind apparently set when he asks, 'are you sure' and he's still close enough that the words, the way they form on his mouth, tickle against the flesh of her lips. She replies with a single nod, a bump of her nose into his before her lips seek his once more, and this time - well, this kiss is very hungry.

She can taste a hint of whiskey on his tongue, and she imagines a bit of sweetness still lingering from their campfire s'mores, but then his mouth is gone, and all she can do is gasp in the moist air surrounding them while his hands find the shirt he'd given her until he has it moving up and up, her arms lifting and her torso shifting until nothing but the shirt he wears separates their skin. A problem she quickly corrects with eager fingers and scraping nails skating across his back.

It's funny really, how eager she feels, the excitement fizzling and simmering along her nerves, but somehow, she isn't nervous, not one bit. Robin calms her while setting her ablaze, soothes while he excites, and if it isn't the hottest thing she's ever experienced she doesn't know what is. She loses herself in his touch; the way his fingers map and trace her body, a palm cups her breast, and how exquisite it feels when his tongue finds a hardened nipple, followed by his lips circling and sucking her into him. She's missed this.

And if the way Robin divests her of her last remnant of clothing, a damp scrap of lace sliding down her legs, is any indication, then he has missed this just as much. She realizes slowly that she's been in a bit of a trance, pulled into a fog of arousal by his hands and his mouth and the scent of whiskey, the taste of s'mores, and the pattering of rain against the side of his tent. Still, she is anything but a lazy lover, and she intends to participate fully in this, wants to give as good as she gets, but when she moves to touch and caress, to pull Robin back up her body from where he seems to have made a home circling her navel with wet kisses, he stops her.

"I want to taste you." And with that she can feel a rush of arousal pool low in her belly, her clit throbbing in anticipation, and why did she ever dislike this man? His eyes are heavy with desire, dark and deep pools equal to the depth and rumble of his voice. She imagines she looks very much the same, eyes dark as she pants and nods her acquiescence.

He takes his time, and damn him because now she's found a whole new reason to dislike the man when everytime he swipes a finger through her folds he just misses the spot where she needs him most, and each kiss he drops to her hips and thighs and belly only leave her wetter and desperate and writhing beneath him.

"Robin," she growls his name, but it morphs to a moan somewhere in the middle, just after the first syllable, when he drops his mouth between her thighs, and slides his tongue through her folds, up and up until he finally places his attention just where she wants it, and by the time his name completely leaves her lips it sounds more like a caress than the groan she'd started with.

He works her up then, his tongue circling and flicking, lips pulling and sucking, until she feels a finger slip inside of her, then another, dipping and testing her until she's arching and he's pivoting and thrusting, curling those fingers just so.

His other hand flattens against her stomach, has her pushed to the blanket beneath them, and then his tongue is moving faster and his hand is still thrusting and his fingers keep finding that spot inside of her that has her gasping for breath and clawing at his hair, and oh god she's almost coming, and then she's falling and spinning and her body is coiling, muscles clenching.

He doesn't stop when she comes, he slows, his fingers sliding in and out with much less force, and his forehead drops to her hip when his mouth leaves her, a groan passing his lips when he tells her how wet she is, how sexy she is, and she thinks with some alarm how easily she could get used to this.

"I want you." Her mouth is dry, and her words sound hoarse, but it's enough to have his fingers leaving her, the last waves of her orgasm washing away while they simultaneously kick his boxers down past muscular thighs and calves, down and away while he rises back up to meet her face. He's hard in her hand a moment later, and his jaw drops open with silence when she strokes him once, then again, and then she tells him to lay on his back partially because she likes the idea of riding him into the ground, but also because she wants the control.

He's not small, not ridiculously huge either, but big enough that this first time will be a bit of a stretch for her, so he obliges, shifts until she's straddling his waist, and his eyes find her breasts, his tongue wetting his lips when he drops each hand to her hips.

She pivots slowly, a languid drag of her slick folds over his cock, and it elicits a groan from his throat that she doesn't think she'll ever tire of hearing, so she does it again, and again, while the pads of his fingers dig into the flesh at her hips. She doesn't think she'll come again, doesn't hold much hope that Robin will be able to hold out for that, not with the way he's pinching his eyes closed and biting into his lower lip, and he's not even inside of her yet.

She stills, waits for his eyes to open, and asks, "are you ready?"

He smiles - no, smirks- when he tells her 'isn't that obvious', and then she's lifting and grasping him in her hand before sinking down onto him. The feel of him filling her, the contours of his cock sliding against her walls, stretching her, has her head tipping back, deep breaths pulling at her lungs, and god she might just come again.

"You feel amazing, Regina. I-" He's breathing fast, gasping, and the grip he has on her hips keeps flexing, but then he's opening his eyes, taking a deep breath, "I won't last long."

She smiles, tells him that's fine, and after a moment of adjusting to the fullness of him inside of her she starts to move. It's a slow pivot of her hips at first, and it has her fingers splayed across his chest, tensing, nails digging into his flesh.

They don't take long to pick up pace, maybe only a minute, and it's really only another couple after that, a minute or two of her riding him harder and faster when Robin anxiously drops a hand from her hip to the apex of her thighs. His thumb moving desperately against her clit, brushing and circling and pressing, but she isn't quite there, and she knows he's going to come before she manages another herself, so she pulls his hand away, grips the other as well and leans forward pinning each wrist beside his head while she grinds down on him harder.

"Regina," it's a strained sound from his mouth, but she just kisses him, her lips and tongue devouring him, and in this moment she thanks her lucky stars that she hadn't listened to him, that she hadn't added more supports to her tent. "I - I'm going to,"

"I know," she whispers against his jaw, and this feels so good, she wants it to last, but knows it can't, not now, not this time, so she tells him to come, tells him she wants to feel him come inside of her.

That seems to finish him, has his hips thrusting upwards, meeting hers and stuttering against them while he pulls her body close to his, their torsos flush, glued together with moist flesh, sweat and skin.

She holds still above him, waits for his hips to cease movement as well, and she doesn't shift in his arms, lets him hold her tight against him until she can hear his heart slow, his gasps calming to a steady breath.

"I can," his voice is dry, rough and scratchy as his hand moves down her back, along her rib cage, and his fingers seek out her clit once more.

She smiles, huffs out a small laugh, because how can he for an instant think she isn't satisfied after that, but she can see it when she lifts her head, an uncertainty in his gaze, something she's determined to erase.

"Robin," she takes his hand, brings it to her mouth and drops a feather light kiss to his knuckle, "I'm good. You more than satisfied me."

His brow furrows, and he looks about to disagree, but then she drops her lips to his, a small kiss, just a press of their mouths really. "Next time." She whispers in the space between them, and his eyes brighten in that moment, dimples carving his cheeks with the deep smile that graces his face.

She drops her head back down, nuzzles into his neck, and is carried away by his arms embracing her, his own whisper of 'next time' like a promising caress echoing in her ear.


End file.
